


Walk The Wire

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Or the lack thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After almost making the ultimate sacrifice, did Greg honestly expect Sherlock to express his gratitude?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk The Wire

**Author's Note:**

> A short, vaguely fluffy thing that's been floating around in my head for a while.

_The pain flared in his arm, a crippling fire. The flames spread, engulfing his chest, a suffocating constriction._

_He couldn’t feel his legs and that was a blessing; every other part of his body was ablaze with the agonizing fire._

_“Lestrade?”_

_A spear of fresh pain shot down his arm as fingers probed, wrapped around the wound, and his vision flared with bright white light before fading back to shadowy darkness._

_Then a cool touch to his cheek drove the fire back, just a little. Blinking hard, he fought to focus on the face of the figure bent over him._

_A mop of dark curls and pale eyes._

_“Sherlock…?”_

_“Be quiet.”_

_“What—”_

_“Shut up, you idiot.”_

_He tried to glare in response to the insult, but the pain twisted his features into a grimace instead. Suddenly, the advice, bluntly put as it was, seemed the most prudent course of action._

_Ice slowly seeped into his bones; chill tendrils slithering through his body, smothering the fire with a numbing cold._

_Trembling now, he blindly groped for Sherlock’s hand, grasping it, clinging to it as an anchor to life. But a heavy blackness crept inexorably behind the chill, clutching at his mind and body, dragging him down into its empty abyss._

_In a fleeting moment of clarity before the darkness swallowed him, he wondered at the way those slender fingers clutched his own. Squeezed._

_Tight._

* * * *

“Piss off, Sherlock.”

Greg turned away from the door, leaving Sherlock standing there, framed in the doorway. Let the sod do whatever the hell he wants; it’s what he usually does.

Slumping back into the corner of his sofa and resettling his arm as comfortably as possible in its sling, Greg wasn’t surprised when, a few moments later, the front door clicked shut and Sherlock – paying no heed to Greg’s command, as expected – sank into an armchair.

Greg decided to ignore him, keeping his eyes on the television screen and stubbornly maintaining a pretence at being fully absorbed by the football scores. Yes, it might be childish, but Greg was in no mood for Sherlock’s shit. He had taken a bullet for the man, saved his exalted, genius life, and Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to visit? Thank him?

Of course not. God forbid Sherlock should lower himself to such wearisome displays of gratitude.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to ignore that intense, penetrating gaze for long. Damn the bastard.

“What do you want?”

Sherlock didn’t reply immediately, giving his attention to the slightly frayed arm of the chair, long fingers idly picking at a loose piece of cotton. “How’s your arm?”

Greg snorted. “Better late then never.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s been a week. Too busy to pay me a visit, were you?”

“I don’t like hospitals.”

“Nobody _likes_ hospitals. And I’ve been home for four days.”

“I’m here now.”

Sherlock finally met Greg’s eyes, and his expression was just the same as always: inscrutable, with a hint of boredom. If Greg thought he detected a flicker of something else, a deeper emotion, it was gone before he could identify it. Then Sherlock’s gaze was gone too, his eyes darting away, taking with them any chance of seeing beyond, into that brilliant, infuriating mind.

A silent, still Sherlock was infinitely more unsettling than a loquacious, hyperactive Sherlock. Despite his determination to be mad at him, Greg couldn’t help but feel a little worried.

The only thing he could do was wait Sherlock out. He knew from experience that pushing him only made him withdraw further. Either that, or Greg would inadvertently start an argument that he lacked the energy to participate in.

The persistent ache in his arm seemed to be growing increasingly worse in sympathy with the churning mixture of anger, irritation, and concern in his mind. Carefully shifting his arm, he laid it more comfortably across his chest. Sherlock might have conveniently forgotten about his injury for several days, but Greg had been cursed with a constant reminder.

There were a few minutes of silence, save the low murmur of the voice through the television’s speakers, but it wasn’t long before Greg felt the return of Sherlock’s gaze, sharp, assessing.

“Why did you do it?”

Greg’s brain sluggishly tried to tune into Sherlock’s wavelength. “Do what?”

“Put yourself in the path of that bullet.”

Greg stared at him, incredulous. It didn’t require a genius IQ to work that one out; why did Sherlock have to start all that reasoning and deducing rather than just accepting it for what it was? “To save your life, you bastard.”

“It was stupid.”

“Yeah, I’m beginning to agree with you.”

“He would have missed.”

“Didn’t bloody miss, did he!” Greg jerked his chin down at his arm, indicating the painful evidence.

“Only because you got in the way.”

“I couldn’t just stand there and watch you get shot! Some of us actually possess the capacity to care about other people.” It had been a natural reaction, an instinct, to put himself between Sherlock and the murder suspect brandishing the gun. Greg had had plenty of time to analyse his actions, and he knew the reasons behind them were deep and indelible.

Sherlock blinked, but his face retained that contemplative neutrality as he lapsed back into quiet introspection.

Greg growled in frustration. Why had he ever agreed to get involved with this git? Why did he continue to work with him when it was Greg who always ended up with the headache, the mess to sort out?

He knew the answer to that, but it was easier to let his vexation take precedence over everything else. Safer.

His arm was starting to throb, the dull ache now firmly established, the fire stoked once more. Squeezing his eyes closed, he dropped his head back onto the cushion behind him, teeth clenched, willing the pain to subside.

“You’re in pain.”

“Of course I’m in pain!” That was the kind of deduction that didn’t require the skill of a consulting bloody detective. “I’ve got a bullet hole in my arm.”

Sherlock didn’t make any kind of derisive retort to that, just rose and left the room. Greg didn’t much care what he was up to, but was nonetheless enlightened when Sherlock returned, perched on the sofa beside Greg, and held out a hand. In his palm sat a couple of the painkillers from the prescription packet Greg had left in the kitchen.

“Thanks.” He plucked the small pills from Sherlock’s palm, tossed them into his mouth, washed them down with the water from the glass Sherlock was holding in his other hand.

When he was done, Sherlock took the glass from him and placed it carefully on the coffee table. Then he sat back, remaining next to Greg, running the fingers of one hand restlessly along the crease of his trouser leg as if deciding whether or not to say something.

Greg waited, feeling the pain begin to dim, beginning to appreciate the company, even in this oddly awkward form. Facing your own mortality was a gloomy affair when alone.

Finally, Sherlock broke the silence.

“You scared me.”

It was said so softly Greg wondered whether he had heard correctly. It was an unexpected revelation, a rare voluntary insight into what Sherlock was thinking, and had taken Greg completely by surprise. “What?”

“I couldn’t stop the bleeding. Then you lost consciousness, and I thought you might…”

Greg was speechless for a moment; it was difficult to believe Sherlock had been honestly concerned about his possible departure from this mortal coil. He hadn’t even enquired at the hospital about his welfare afterwards.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“You’re not invincible, Lestrade.”

“Neither are you. It’s not exactly a barrel of laughs watching you risk your life every other day.” Sherlock must know that there were people who cared about him. He couldn’t be _that_ oblivious to the feelings of those closest to him, surely?

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Nobody can predict the future, Sherlock. Not even you.”

Silence prevailed once more. Sherlock had no response to that. He lifted his gaze to Greg’s face, gave a solemn nod. Perhaps he was beginning to understand.

“We’ve got plenty more years of driving each other mad ahead of us, believe me.” Greg’s assertion was coupled with a small smile. The world seemed to be settling back into its normal rhythm, and his fondness for the exasperating bastard had reasserted itself, forced the anger back.

“Good.”

Sherlock slid closer and dropped his head onto Greg’s shoulder. The unprecedented show of affection, almost intimate in its tenderness, stole Greg’s breath. He suddenly recalled the way Sherlock had grasped his hand with the same desperate strength with which Greg himself had clung on to that tether to life.

Perhaps he had been too quick to accuse Sherlock of being completely devoid of feelings.

“Don’t do it again.”

“I can’t make any promises.” The very nature of his job meant he faced danger with an all-too frequent regularity. Nor could he ever vow to remain on the sidelines whenever Sherlock placed himself in harm’s way.

Sherlock tensed, then relaxed and gave a nod that Greg felt against his shoulder. “Neither can I.”

“I wouldn’t dare ask you to.”

Sherlock gave a soft huff that might have been amusement, but that communicated his acceptance of this consensus between them perfectly eloquently. They would always look out for each other, even if they would never admit to doing so, and struggled to express the unspoken bond that linked them intrinsically together.

“Daft sod,” Greg mumbled into Sherlock’s hair, a fond endearment born of a deep-rooted affection of his own.

They remained like that even as dusk slowly settled around them.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Bryan Adams's '(Everything I Do) I Do It For You'.


End file.
